


Sonata in B Minor

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Classical Music, Dark-ish, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Piano, Spoilers, Spoilers COG, Summer 1899, latin poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: However, that day, instead of the usual set of trinkets and baroque furniture, a shiny black grand piano occupied most of the window. Gellert stopped talking all of a sudden, his gaze falling on the beautiful instrument, fascinated.“Can you play?” Albus inquired, intrigued.Gellert scoffed: “Of course.” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.





	Sonata in B Minor

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Yes, I am supposed to catch up with my deadlines. No, I'm not doing it, instead I write.  
> Well.
> 
> This fanfiction contains SPOILERS, so if you have not watched FBCOG yet, keep out.
> 
> This fanfiction was officially prompted by [aryastark_valarmorghulis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis)but has kind of always been in the back of my head, since noticing the way in which Grindelwald practices magic in FBCOG. Add to that the back of Albus Dumbledore's chocolate frog, his quote on music from HPPS, my borderline nerdy passion for classical music and me being a Classicist and ta-daaa! This comes out.  
> I really do hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> English is not my first language, so please point out mistakes to me.
> 
> I beg of you: play Franz Liszt's Piano Sonata in B minor S. 178 while you are reading this because it will become adamantly clear to you too how perfectly it summarises Albus and Gellert's summer. I suggest [ Maurizio Pollini's version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qS0gxhktEuY).
> 
> That's all folks!

“For the virtuoso, musical works are in fact nothing but tragic and moving materializations of his emotions; he is called upon to make them speak, weep, sing and sigh, to recreate them in accordance with his own consciousness. In this way he, like the composer, is a creator, for he must have within himself those passions that he wishes to bring so intensely to life.”   
― Franz Liszt

 

It was the first day of August and the first day of good weather after a long week of greyish sky and sudden storms. Two smart-looking young men were strolling down the main street – and honestly, the only one that was not dirt floor, but was at least paved – of the small village of Godric’s Hollow.

Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald had met at the cemetery, as it was usual for them – it had become a tradition of the sort – but when Albus had turned towards the path that led to the woods, Gellert had told him that he wanted to buy some ingredients to improve the standard recipe of the Invisibility Potion. So, they had walked to the apothecary – who happened to be a fifty-something wizard who sold toad eyes as well as laudanum – and after purchasing some aconite, a bunch of Demiguise hair and a vial of so-called Lethe’s drops, instead of taking the way back around the church, they had proceeded along the high street. In doing so, they had had to pass by Calliope Helicon’s Antique Shop. It was one of the oldest emporia in town, dating back to the 1790s. Calliope was a Muggle, but Albus suspected that a wizard or two had owned the place before she did: it wasn’t uncommon to recognise magical artefacts among her products. However, that day, instead of the usual set of trinkets and baroque furniture, a shiny black grand piano occupied most of the window. Gellert stopped talking all of a sudden, his gaze falling on the beautiful instrument, fascinated.

“Can you play?” Albus inquired, intrigued.

Gellert scoffed: “Of course.” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Without magic?” Albus couldn’t help the stupor that coloured his words.

Gellert’s mismatched eyes abandoned the piano, and his gaze focused on Albus: “Yes, Dumbledore. I can play the piano.” He stopped, then added, coldly “And if you are insinuating that this is in any way only Muggle-worthy– ”

Albus put a hand on Gellert’s forearm: he could feel the tension of his muscles under the thin silk of his shirt. His grip on the paper bag with the potion ingredients was tight. Albus curled his fingers: it was a soft gesture, intimate but at the same time one that would have not caught the unwanted attention of snooping neighbours – wizards or Muggles. “I don’t. I am impressed. I cannot play any instrument. Nevertheless, I enjoy music as a mere prophane does.”

Gellert relaxed and his head bent slightly towards the window: “I used to play, back at my parents’ house. My father was a conductor.”

There was a strange inflection in the way he pronounced the word. On a first instance, Albus thought it was a trace of Gellert accent, but as he went on, he understood that it was… abashment? Could it be possible?

“It’s not uncommon for conductors to be wizards,” Was he justifying himself? His family? “It is easy to mistake a wand for a baton, so it’s not hard to add some magic even to plain Muggle orchestras. Moreover, a wizard is often necessary, especially if you have to deal with Wagner’s peculiarities, you know? A skilled Muggle, that one. I suspect he has at least a Squib ancestor.”

He was blabbering. Gellert’s eyes met his, he wasn’t defiant, just… insecure. He was looking for his approval.

Albus had no idea if Gellert was just making things up to justify the fact that his father – a wizard – had had what it looked like a Muggle job – or at least a job that even a Muggle could do – or if it was really the truth. Moreover, he barely knew who Richard Wagner was, and he had little knowledge of his music. As he nodded, more out of politeness than real understanding, he realised that he didn’t care: Muggles weren’t inferior, they were just _other_. They needed guidance, not domination. He licked his lips and decided to focus on the fact that Gellert was opening up to him: he didn’t often talk about his family. It meant he trusted him.

“He used to invite the most renowned wizard _virtuosos_ for private recitals.”

This sparkled Albus’ interest: “Are there many? I mean, many wizards and witches who play music?” he inquired, curiously.

As it had been made pristine, his knowledge of music – and of magical music in particular – was, alas, inadequate. He enjoyed the occasional concert, when he visited London; some of his acquaintances there had brought him to recitals and operas in a couple occasions, but he had never spent much time really considering it. His parents weren’t fond of anything even slightly enjoyable, so his own house had always been lacking in that department. Looking at the elegant shape of the piano he wondered if Ariana could benefit from some music. They said it relieved the soul, lifting the burdens of the heart. Maybe he could enchant the keys…

“Some. You can immediately feel when a musician is a wizard. Paganini was a wizard, of course, I regret that he died a generation ago, but you can never know, we could hear some of his Capricci, when we have the Stone,”

He grinned – he had regained his usual cockiness – and Albus couldn’t help smiling back.

“And Franz Liszt, the greatest musician of these last few years. Hungarian, of course,” He paused again, as savouring the fact that they shared lineage, “Flawless in duelling and in composing. I was allowed to leave Durmstrang to attend his funeral, three years ago. He was a respected alumnus.”

Albus wondered if Gellert would ever cease to impress him: “You knew Franz Liszt.” He said, bewildered. Even in his sheer ignorance, he knew who he was, he had read his name on Muggle papers. Liszt had been a prodigy, touring Europe since he was a child, giving more than a thousand recitals in a decade, women literally threw themselves at his feet and kings begged him to play for them. In all conscience, he didn’t know he was a wizard. Apart from academics, his knowledge of the rest of the wizarding world had serious defects. In that respect, Gellert was more of a socialite than he was.

“I did.” Gellert lifted the left corner of his mouth, uncapable of hiding his pride, “I took some valuable lessons from him.”

“Like?”

“That music and magic are quite the same thing. Both embody feeling without forcing it to contend and combine with thought.” Gellert threw a longing look towards the piano, “They both let emotions radiate and shine in their own character.”

Albus waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He threw a sideways smile towards him and went back walking.

“I will play for you, someday.”

 

♫

 

Albus was dozing off.

It was late afternoon; the rays of the sun were cutting through Gellert’s room like blades. He could see, his eyes narrowed, the small particles of dust floating mid-air, like minuscule gold nuggets. They reminded him a piece of poetry he had read a couple of nights before. It was from a Latin poet named Lucretius. Elphias had sent him a copy of his masterpiece – _De Rerum Natura_ – from Rome, where his Grand Tour had led him. It was an exquisite edition, newly printed, the paper still smelled like fresh ink. He remembered opening it randomly and reading some pages. A passage in particular had stricken him. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. The page appeared behind his eyelids: _Contemplator enim, cum solis lumina cumque inserti fundunt radii per opaca domorum…_ _Do but apply your scrutiny whenever the sun’s rays are let in and pour their light through a dark room…_

“Gellert,” he murmured, without opening his eyes “Listen to this, look at the sun.”

He could feel him stir, annoyed, somewhere near his right arm. Gellert was on his side, his back to Albus. He smiled when his lover’s cold foot bumped against his ankle.

“Merlin, Albus, can’t you just enjoy the afterglo–”

“Hear me out, you’ll like this. _Do but apply your scrutiny whenever the sun’s rays are let in and pour their light through a dark room_ ,” he said, slowly, his Latin flowing smoothly. “ _You will see many minute particles mingling in many ways throughout the void in the light itself of the rays_ ”

Albus paused, then asked: “Are you watching the sunlight?”

He dared opening his eyes, the poem fixed in his memory. Gellert didn’t answer, he had gone still; if he focussed enough, he could hear his regular breathing. Albus smiled weakly, bending his head to his right, feeling the soft cotton of the pillow against his cheek. Gellert’s golden curls were close, he wrinkled his nose: they were tickling. His gaze was transfixed on the light that cut across the room. Albus imitated him and went on.

“ _And as it were in everlasting conflict struggling, fighting, battling in troops without any pause, driven about with frequent meetings and partings_ ;” he nuzzled the top of Gellert’s head, breathing in the smell of soap, sweat, and something else, something he was sure he was always going to connect with him, with that moment, that afternoon, that summer. Albus breathed out.

“ _So that you may conjecture from this what it is for the first-beginnings of things to be ever tossed about in the great void. So far as it goes, a small thing may give an analogy of great things, and show the tracks of knowledge_.” He finished. He couldn’t remember how it went on, it was surely longer but…

Gellert turned on his back, his left shoulder overlapped with the right side of Albus’ chest and Albus chuckled when Gellert’s hand collided against his temple, while he tried to tangle his fingers in the auburn hair. He kept smiling when he heard his lover’s whine of annoyance and bent his neck to get to Gellert’s lips. The kiss ended up being slightly off-centred and messy with smiles and sighs. Neither of them said a word. They were so close Albus could count all of Gellert’s fair eyelashes. His eyes were mesmerizing. Albus licked his lips when he felt Gellert’s feet caressing his calf up and down, slowly. He couldn’t stop looking at him. Their noses bumped. Since he had shifted, Albus’ right leg had been squished between Gellert’s. He could feel the strong muscles of his backside pressing against the sharp edge of his hip. He was painfully aware of every little fragment of skin that was in contact with Gellert’s milky body. He closed his eyes. A whimper escaped his mouth and he knew that Gellert was smiling his cat-got-the-cream smile, he could _feel_ it from the way his fingertips started stroking more firmly his scalp.

“ _So far as it goes, a small thing may give an analogy of great things, and show the tracks of knowledge_.”

Gellert repeated the verses slowly, his Latin stronger, the words sharper. He had obviously learnt it before English, from a German teacher or even a Hungarian one. The vowels flowed almost liquid, while the dry sound of the alveolar consonants stung like razors. Albus shivered.

Gellert sat straight and Albus instinctively flexed his fingers, mourning the loss. He let his gaze linger: Gellert’s blond, unruly curls shaded his pointed shoulder blades; he could admire the defined curve of his back, the tender dimples at the base of his spine. He wanted to trace them with his thumbs like he had done before, just because he was allowed to. His sigh must have been so deep that Gellert glanced at him above his shoulder, a cocky smile on his full lips. They were red and swollen from the previous kisses – and bites.

“Poetry suits you, Dumbledore.” Said Gellert.

“Smugness suits _you_ , Grindelwald.”

Gellert laughed, his locks shining like a cascade of precious silk on his shoulders. Albus breath got stuck in his throat. Suddenly, Gellert had shifted towards the edge of the bed and a second after his feet started moving fast on the wooden floor. The boards screeched but Albus didn’t mind. Miss Bagshot wasn’t home, she was in London for a meeting with her editor. They were alone. He watched Gellert run towards what looked like a weirdly-shaped piece of furniture. It was hard to understand what it was because it was mostly covered in clothes, parchments, books, candles, lamps, vials of ink, even what looked like a modified Sneakoscope. Albus blinked, watching curiously as Gellert started moving his stuff, abandoning it on other surfaces – mostly on the floor, actually.

He let his eyes examine the space around him more attentively; he didn’t really, before. He had been in Gellert’s room just a couple of times, during the summer. They usually stayed at the Dumbledores’, where Albus could check on Ariana more easily; or in Miss Bagshot’s huge library, downstairs; or even outside, practicing enchantments in the fields, having heartfelt conversations over Ignotus Peverell’s tombstone… It wasn’t only that, of course. There were the lazy afternoons at the pond, where they talked for hours, where they dreamed, where they kissed fervently, passionately, voraciously, where they explored each other’s bodies, where they experimented, mesmerised by their reactions, like they did that afternoon. It was inebriating. Albus didn’t know how he could have ever lived without all this, without Gellert. He blinked.

Gellert had managed to move most of the objects and finally Albus understood what was hidden underneath. It was an upright piano: it looked old and dusty; it was dark brown, the edges a bit smudged. Gellert lifted the keyboard cover and threw away the shabby velvet cloth that covered the keys. Those looked untouched: they were a pearly shade of ivory, neat and elegant. Gellert looked at them for long instants, before bending towards his discarded trousers, still abandoned near the door where Albus had took them off him. He collected his wand from one of the pockets, then moved back towards the piano, touching lightly its surface with the tip and murmuring enchantments that Albus didn’t get. He was tuning it.

“Are you going to play for me?” he dared ask, almost a whisper.

Gellert didn’t answer, nor he acknowledged his question, he just smiled, without looking at him. It was unexpected, and strangely romantic. Albus felt a blush at the thought and gaped when he noticed that Gellert’s ears were red as well, half-hidden in his leonine hair.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the bench. Albus held his breath. The piano leaned against the wall at his left, beside the window; the lazy rays of sun caressed the profile of Gellert’s heel, embraced his calf, drifted behind his knee and highlighted the strong muscle of his thigh. Albus envied the sunlight, he wanted to follow its path, up the sharp curves of Gellert’s hips, the tapered line of his back, his shoulder, his lean, flexed arm, the just hinted side of his little finger, lazily brushing a key. Gellert’s took a deep breath, as before preparing for a dive, and shifted, so that the left side of his head was in full light. His golden hair shone, his pale complexion almost sparkled, the only feature that seemed untouched was his black, obsidian eye. The whole picture was breath-taking. Sun and shadow. Darkness and light. Albus thought it was perfection. He thought, _This is it, this is the apex_.

And then Gellert started playing.

At the beginning, soft touches, barely there, down, down the scale. Albus had to focus to get them, to sharpen his ear. The music was keeping him on his toes. Something was supposed to happen. In his memories a gloomy afternoon appeared: heavy, grey clouds, the oppressive sensation of the beginning of a summer who should have gone very differently.

Then, suddenly, a strong, almost violent change: Gellert’s hands were both in full sunlight, they were pushing on the keys with strength. A cloaked figure, all dressed in black, had appeared at the end of the paved high street, a simple bag thrown on his back, his hair like liquid gold on his shoulders. Albus remembered hesitating, behind his closed window, the ink at the top of his quill dripping on the immaculate parchment.

Gellert’s hand started moving fervently on the keys, one scale after the other – up, up went the modulation. They were running towards a precise moment, they were expecting it, it was going to happen, inevitably. And when it did happen it was like a rush of energy, a continuous up and down, as he couldn’t stop, as he wouldn’t stop. Up and down the keys, like a dance, like a conversation. Like _their_ conversations: an infinite duel, a never-ending match, who was going to win? Albus could see them, could distinctly envision their first meeting, the moment in which their skin touched for the first time in a handshake, the way in which they had looked into each other’s eyes and Miss Bagshot must have said something, an introduction  of some sort, but Albus couldn’t remember what, not in that moment, not in the past, because Gellert Grindelwald was there, in front of him, the left corner of his mouth slightly upturned. They had started talking, and after that everything had happened like in the sonata that Gellert was playing, up and down, a continuous stream from one to the other…

Until a majestic movement came, it was as if a phoenix was spreading its wings, it was as if the air was restored in Albus’ lungs. Gellert’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly parted and Albus wanted to know if they were thinking the same thing, if they were remembering the same magnificent moment, when they both had understood that they had found their match, their equal. He pushed in Gellert’s mind and he saw that instant, clear as his own memory, he couldn’t say if it was his recollection or Gellert’s.

And after that, peace: slow walks beside clear streams, lazy afternoons on the grass, reading from Albus’ old copy of Beedle, Gellert’s hands running up his arms as they did on the piano. But also chasing each other, laughing, rolling down the hillside and inside the pond, their clothes drenched and swear words in German and just laughter and laughter and laughter. A photograph took on the Dumbledores’ porch. Albus didn’t know how it was possible that what Gellert’s was playing was so similar, so coincident with his memories. It was like an enchantment, it was as if one of the spells that Gellert had cast on the keys was not just for tuning the old piano. It was as if he did something to it, he did magic to it and Albus was so, so glad he did. Now he knew. He knew he hadn’t lied to him when he was talking about his father, that afternoon a fortnight before. Magical music was indeed different, it was better, it could do things…

The music changed again, strong, hard, Albus saw them challenging each other on the Dumbledores’ back lawn. He remembered that day, Gellert couldn’t stop asking question, about his mother, about Aberforth, about Ariana and Albus didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to do – why couldn’t it be _simple_? Why couldn’t he have this, without _them_ being there all the time? He had exploded at some point, yelling and telling him everything and red sparks from the tip of his wand had set fire to a dead bush. Gellert had smiled weakly, muttering an Aguamenti.

After that, in the sonata, in Albus memories, everything went back to that peaceful, grandiose rhythm again. And they were back on track, they were back to each other, the last wall between them destroyed. They were superb again, they were outstanding, they were in the meadows and in Albus’ room and in Miss Bagshot’s library and they were planning their future, everyone’s future, they were planning greatness.

Gellert’s hands were like butterflies on the keys, sweet and delicate, like a lover’s touch. Like the soft pecks from his lips. Gellert was looking at the keys, an exposed expression on his young features, baring himself to the music, in the music, baring himself to Albus. He had seen that before, he was enthralled by it. He was the proof that there wasn’t anything to keep them apart, no secrets, no hesitations. They were a soul in two bodies.

Suddenly, as suddenly as at the beginning of the sonata, a crescendo. They were scheming, in Albus memory, they were so taken in their conversations, their foreheads almost touching, leaning towards old books, on smoky potions. The future was going to be amazing, it was going to be great, everyone would lead a better life, everyone would find a place, even Aberforth, even Ariana, they were going to make sure of it. Everything was going to work out, _for the greater good_. They were going to be invincible. Together. Always together. A dark, dusty barn, flesh splitting open, their blood mingling, fingers intertwined, the vial floating mid-air. _For the greater good_.

He had written to Gellert the night before, a needy frenzy to communicate with him – how could he be alone when his hand was slashed in the middle, when his soul was tied to Gellert Gindelwald’s forever? That had led to an answer, and another, and another and it was almost dawn when he had collapsed on his bed, exhausted. When he had woken up, the sun was bright and Aberforth had left a note: he was going to bring Ariana out, to feed the goats, to distract her. Albus had not lost time, his palm was still pulsing from what they had done the day before; he had run to Miss Bagshot’s house, Gellert had opened the door and… And they were there, in that moment, in Gellert’s room, entangled in his sheets, one in the bed, the other at the piano.

But the music went on, it didn’t stop there with the memories. A hammering marcato, a continuous crescendo. Gellert’s hands moved on the keys so fast that Albus could only see their vague shape. He looked like an angel, all blond curls and milky skin, and flexed muscles, wide-eyed, gaping mouth, enraptured in his melody, he looked like a demon. An ominous undertow, a jagged, forceful theme, Gellert was building his music to one last titanic climax.

Then… silence.

Dramatically, the music started wearing away, Gellert ushered it to its epilogue: it was touching, almost melancholy.

Albus wondered what it meant.

When Gellert’s hands lifted from the ivory, he was breathing frantically. He stayed still for long moments. Albus could feel their magic coming back to them, he didn’t even realise how it had been filling out all the space in the room until a moment before. Their eyes met. Gellert’s breath was slowing. Albus felt his heart pacing down. He was grasping at the sheets, he let them go, surprised.

 “Franz Liszt. Sonata in B minor.” Said Gellert and his voice was hoarse, “ _So far as it goes, a small thing may give an analogy of great things, and show the tracks of knowledge_.”

And in that moment, when Gellert’s face was full in light, beautiful, spent and gloating, the Hallows pendant dangling from his neck, his naked body taut in his direction, Albus remembered the second part of the Latin poem – maybe it wasn’t all of it, it wasn’t important.

_Even more for another reason it is proper that you give attention to these bodies which are seen to be in turmoil within the sun’s rays, because such turmoil indicates that there are secret and unseen motions also hidden in matter. For there you will see how many things set in motion by unseen blows change their course and beaten back return back again, now this way, now that way, in all directions. You may be sure that all take their restlessness from the first-beginnings. The movement ascends from the first-beginnings and by successive degrees emerges upon our senses, so that those bodies also are moved which we are able to perceive in the sun’s light, yet it does not openly appear by what blows they are made to do so._

He lifted his left hand, palm up, an angry red cut visible on it. Gellert stood up, walked towards him and intertwined their fingers.

 

“Mournful and yet grand is the destiny of the artist.”

 ― Franz Liszt

**Author's Note:**

> Bibliography because I am a nerd (also, occupational hazard):
> 
> Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, 2.114-141. I used the Loeb, ed. by W. H. D. Rouse  
> Latin text:  
> contemplator enim, cum solis lumina cumque  
> inserti fundunt radii per opaca domorum:  
> multa minuta modis multis per inane videbis  
> corpora misceri radiorum lumine in ipso  
> et velut aeterno certamine proelia pugna  
> sedere turmatim certantia nec dare pausam,  
> conciliis et discidiis exercita crebris;  
> conicere ut possis ex hoc, primordia rerum  
> quale sit in magno iactari semper inani.  
> dumtaxat rerum magnarum parva potest res  
> exemplare dare et vestigia notitiai.  
> Hoc etiam magis haec animum te advertere par est  
> corpora quae in solis radiis turbare videntur,  
> quod tales turbae motus quoque materiai  
> significant clandestinos caecosque subesse.  
> multa videbis enim plagis ibi percita caecis  
> commutare viam retroque repulsa reverti,  
> nunc huc nunc illuc, in cunctas undique partis,  
> scilicet hic a principiis est omnibus error:  
> […]  
> sic a principiis ascendit motus et exit  
> paulatim nostros ad sensus, ut moveantur  
> illa quoque in solis quae lumine cernere quimus,  
> nec quibus id faciant plagis apparet aperte.
> 
> Liszt’s sonata:  
> 1) Which one to listen to? As I said, [ Pollini’s version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qS0gxhktEuY), that was what I listened to for like the five hours I spent writing this.  
> 2) Analysis:  
> a. [ For non-experts ](https://fdleone.com/2015/07/09/overview-and-analysis-of-the-liszt-piano-sonata-in-b-minor-s-178/)(like me – took a lot from this).  
> b. [ This ](https://pure.qub.ac.uk/portal/files/148250194/THESIS_PROOF_FOR_PURE.pdf) is a MA thesis on it, so check it and its bibliography in particular.  
> c. [Leslie Howard’s analysis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAel-mzSmts&t=442s).  
> I have no idea where the quotes by Liszt come from, I actually googled “Franz Liszt quotes”. Lame, I know.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything: piano sonata, Lucretius, the analisys, anything. This is just fun.


End file.
